


the still, sad music of humanity

by battyboy



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Hunger Games Setting, Angst and Tragedy, Bow and Arrows, Canon-Typical Violence, Dark Jean Valjean, Dark Past, Drama & Romance, Drunkenness, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Enjolras/Grantaire-centric, Eventual Romance, F/M, Family Feels, Family Issues, Fucked Up, Grantaire & Éponine Thénardier Friendship, Hunting, M/M, Multi, Or Is It?, Slow Burn, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-29
Updated: 2020-08-11
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:55:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25598419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/battyboy/pseuds/battyboy
Summary: Grantaire is a young man scraping by in District 12. His existance is meger, but happy...more or less. Hunting with his best friend Eponine, providing for his family -- these are all he knows. When his beloved younger sister is reaped for the 74th Hunger Games, he makes a snap decision that will shape the rest of his life, if he even has one.Featuring romance, violence, and sparks of revolution.
Relationships: Cosette Fauchelevent/Marius Pontmercy, Courfeyrac/Jean Prouvaire, Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables), Grantaire/Éponine Thénardier, Joly/Bossuet Laigle/Musichetta, Montparnasse/Azelma Thénardier
Comments: 1
Kudos: 11





	1. one

Nicolas Grantaire came awake as he always did: abruptly, and in a state of quiet panic. Father screaming, lost in the mines, the explosions like Capitol fireshows, his younger sister cadaverous and crying -- And then calm. He sat up in the bed he and Viole shared only to find her gone. Likely up already, anxious but trying not to show it. Viole was twelve this year. Her first Reaping. 

Grantaire pulled on a pair of trousers, collected his satchel, shrugged on his hunting jacket. It had been a Father’s from, well, before. There was a moment, there, where he felt he’d become paralyzed by grief. Tender Viole, who cried when she saw a dead rabbit in the road, was putting her name in the Reaping today. How would a kid like that survive in the Games? Just as the unfairness of it all threatened to suffocate him, he pulled it together. It’s fine. You’re fine. They need you to be strong. He meandered into the living area but hung back a moment at the sight he found there: Mother was braiding Viole’s hair into a complicated plait. Her slender fingers were able to work magic, when she wanted them to. The domesticity of the scene almost physically hurt. Viole looked up immediately. The little scamp was always attuned to his presence.

“R!” she said cheerily. “I got up early and prepared breakfast for you!” 

“Thanks, flower,” Grantaire replied, sickened. There were some things a few eggs and bits of cheese couldn’t fix. “How do you feel?”

Viole tensed, obviously trying to pick her words carefully. The girl was trying not to upset Mother. “Anxious. At turns upset. But...I’ll be okay.”

“Exactly. Your name is only in the Reaping once. You won’t get chosen.” I hope. A few years back, a twelve-year-old boy who wasn’t quite right in the head had been chosen. His name was only in once as well. His guts had been spilled within seconds of the Games beginning. He’d cried for his mama while he died. 

“Exactly,” Viole echoed, her voice just a little strained. 

R left the house before his heart could be broken further. Walking along the dirt path from his house, he was struck again by the abject poverty in which he lived. You got used to it, living in it, but sometimes it just -- struck you. The houses falling apart at the seams, the coal dust tramped into the cobblestones, the visible ribs of each child in his path. It was a gray life. 

As he walked towards the meadow at the edge of District 12, his best friend, Eponine, fell into step with him. Eponine was a District 12 oddity. Brown skin, tight brown curls, and amber eyes made her stand out from the rest of the citizens. She wasn’t, really -- a citizen, that is. Her parents were the scummy type who farmed their kids out to other districts. Didn’t feel like taking care of them. Their home was in District 7, supplying lumber for the Capitol. When Eponine was eight, they had sent her off to a distant aunt in 12, and they’d been fast friends ever since. Eponine had a younger sister living with a cousin in 5, and a brother living with a family friend in 4. The Capitol discouraged communication between districts, so the three stayed connected through a thin map of letters and the rare photograph. The younger siblings had been sent off when they were about three, and were considered citizens of 4 and 5. Eponine, on the other hand, due to changing laws and unstable governance, was still counted in District 7 censuses, and reaped with the kids from 7. She always joked that if she were reaped, she’d be in deep shit, but at least they’d have a hell of a time finding her. 

“Ep,” Grantaire greeted.

“R,” she returned. 

They walked in silence until they approached the fence that enclosed their district and separated them from the forest beyond. It was a twenty-foot tall monstrosity of chain link and barbed wire. Eponine had hearing like a bloodhound, so it was she who approached the chain link and listened. 

“Electircity’s off.”

“As usual.” R lifted a chunk of fencing and let Eponine slip through. He followed after her. The fence was supposed to be electrified at all hours of the day, but electricity was a rare commodity for citizens of 12. More to their advantage, though, honestly. They walked for around twenty minutes, silent, before reaching a small clearing. There was a hollowed-out tree where they’d stored their hunting gear for years here. They’d always used this little clearing as a sign that they could speak freely.

“So,” Eponine said, reaching for her bow, “happy Hunger Games.”

R rolled his eyes. “Happiest day of my life.”

“How are you doing with everything?” she asked. 

“I’m...” He trailed off. “It’s Viole’s first reaping. So...I feel like...I mean, angry. Worried. But mostly just so fucking sad.”

“It’s Gavroche’s first reaping too,” Eponine said. “I know I haven't seen him since he was a baby, but even so...it’s just such a shame.”

“I’m sorry.” Grantaire felt like an ass. “I didn’t even think of him. When did he turn twelve?”

“Couple of weeks back. He’s barely twelve. And Azelma is fourteen this year. I think the two youngest are five and...seven? Eight?” Eponine wasn’t much for self-pity -- never had been -- but for a moment she just looked so crushingly sad. “I don’t think I’ll be able to breathe until they’re all eighteen.”

Grantaire gripped her arm reassuringly. “They won’t be chosen. None of us will. In a couple of hours, this’ll all be over.” He did his best to smile. 

Eponine shrugged out of his grip, eyes blazing. “But it won’t be. Not for the poor kids who get reaped. And not for the kids next year. It never ends.” 

Grantaire sensed a tirade coming. Eponine often talked so dangerously, so openly about her hatred for the Capitol that he was surprised she hadn’t been sniped yet. 

“It never ends,” she repeated. “How can humans treat other humans like this, and just...accept it? And fucking celebrate it? It’s sickening.” She went quiet surprisingly early. Usually these rants lasted a good fifteen, twenty minutes -- sometimes longer. But Grantaire sensed she was finished.

They journeyed farther into the woods in silence. It was, by all accounts, a gorgeous summer day. It was still cool, but there was a warm breeze coming in from the west. The trees were a brilliant green, the sky a piercing and boundless blue. Even the grass seemed a little greener than usual. How the natural world teemed with life in the midst of all this death, how it rioted with color in the midst of gray District 12 -- it seemed beyond belief. R shot four squirrels, two rabbits, and collected a mess of wild strawberries and nuts. Eponine, who had always been brilliant with snares, pulled five rabbits, two chipmunks, a collection of fish, and even an owl from her snares around their hunting grounds. 

“Think he was going after this little guy?” Eponine said, holding one of her chipmunks by the tail.

Grantaire was examining the owl. It was a beautiful creature. All tawny-white wings and bright face. It seemed strange for such a majestic-looking creature to be caught in the snare of one skinny young wretch. “Reckon so,” he said at last, and shoved the owl unceremoniously into his hunting satchel. He looked up at the sun. “It’s got to be around eleven. Let’s eat and then head back.”

Eponine divied up his breakfast and a small loaf of bread she’d scored. They topped it off with some of their strawberries and nuts. Eponine was oddly subdued.

“Is your brother still bothering you?” R ventured.

She shook her head. “No. The Hunger Games are bothering me.”

“This again? C’mon, Ep, there’s nothing we can do. We need to be strong for the young ones and keep feeding our families. That’s what we can do.” Let her save her preaching for someone who wanted to hear it. She was a good friend -- his best and only, really -- but half the time the girl seemed ready to stage a one-woman rebellion. And who did it help if she got killed trying? No one. 

Eponine popped a nut in her mouth and chewed it thoughtfully. “We could just...leave. Go live in the woods. If anyone could survive out here, it’s us.”

Grantaire had to laugh. Of all the traitorous things she’d said, all the ways she had promised to kill peacekeepers and corrupt politicians, this was perhaps the most ridiculous thing. The laugh that came out of his mouth was cruel. “Eponine, we’ve always been honest with each other. We’ve never bullshitted. Go run into the woods? Are you fucking nuts?” He threw up his hands. “What about my mother? Viole? Do you think Viole could kill something? What about your aunt and cousins? Would you just abandon them?”

Eponine had the decency to at least try to look chagrined. “I guess I didn’t really think it through.”

“Yeah.” They walked back to the District in relative silence, though their hunt was over. They traded most of their game for goods and money on the black market, stopped by the mayor’s house with the strawberries, and gifted the owl to the head peacekeeper. He was a stout but friendly man, good-natured with a passion for rare game. He’d been given several wild cats, rare birds, and unusually large elk in recent years. In return, he turned a blind eye to their hunting and mysterious gifts -- a new dress for Eponine, fancy milk for Viole’s cat, even a pair of proper hunting boots for R -- would appear on their porches now and then. The head peacekeeper had their unusual gifts stuffed and mounted. R supposed the owl would make a fetching piece of decor if you had the privilege of thinking about such things.

At last, Grantaire and Eponine stood in front of Eponine’s dwelling. It wasn’t much -- inhabited as it was by herself, her aunt, and her six young cousins. “See you at the reaping, I guess,” Eponine said. She smirked, their tense exchange seemingly forgotten. “If you laugh at me in my reaping dress, I’ll kill you.”

R snorted. She’d been wearing the same reaping dress since she was thirteen. “You look so pretty in your picnic dress,” he crooned. The faded red gingham had probably once been pretty. These days it just made her look awfully sallow. 

Eponine socked him in the arm. With a fond roll of her eyes, she was gone. He took his time making the short trek to his family’s shack. He stood outside for a moment, gathered his breath, and walked inside. Viole’s stood, nervous, in a modest skirt and much-mended top. It had once been his, but his mother had taken it in drastically. 

“R!” Viole scolded. “We could be late! Mother laid out your reaping outfit.” The button down shirt and black pants he wore to every wedding and funeral in the district lay on their kitchen table, freshly ironed. He changed quickly, discarding his game bag and hunting jacket. 

“Come on, come on,” Viole said. She was running on nervous energy. “Mother already left. She said you’d want to walk me to my first --” Her voice caught. “To my first reaping.”

It stung, in some distant part of his mind, that Mother didn’t act like a mother. A mother should have been tender with her children on reaping day, treating them like fragile, highly-prized items. Because that’s what children were, weren’t there? By the end of the day, two poor kids would be ripped from their parents forever. District 12 never won -- slaughter was expected. Ever since Father died, Mother had been more or less absent. Perhaps her body was there, but never her mind. Not fully, at least. R was used to it by now, but he was the way Mother’s benign neglect affected Viole. And now of all times? 

R pulled his little into a bone-crushing hug. “It’ll be alright, flower. I promise you. In a few hours, we’ll be back home eating supper.” She didn’t look convinced. “I know your first reaping is scary, flower, I know it. But I don’t break my promises, do I?”

Viole shook her head. “No, you never do.”

“When I promised we’d survive after Father died? That I’d think of something?”

“We survived,” Viole affirmed. 

“Yes. And when I said Eponine and I would always put food on the table?”

“You always have.” Except for that time when -- No. Best forgotten. Viole looked, for a moment, hopeful. She was such a beautiful child. High cheekbones, pale skin, big eyes. She almost looked like one of the porcelain dolls they saw in the market district.

“And when I say you won’t be reaped?”

“Then I won’t be reaped.”

“Right, then.” He put an arm around her shoulders and guided her out of the house. They walked like this all the way to the town square, where Grantaire had to pass Viole off. She went to stand with a group of twelve-year-olds, who all looked some variation of terrified and confused. Poor kids. Today wouldn’t be easy for them. Grantaire found Eponine in the roped-off area for sixteen-year-olds. “Hey.” He bumped her arm with his.

“Hey,” she said. 

“Nice picnic dress,” R whispered.

She pinched his arm. “Ass.”

He bit back a retort at the sight of the man striding into the square. He took the small stage erected in front of their Justice Building and beamed out at the crowd. “Hello, District Twelve!” he trilled. Claquesous, the flamboyant and stupid-positive escort to 12. It was no secret he’d been vying for a better District for years, but somehow that didn’t stop his spew of sunshine. Claquesous was a pale man, tall and with bright silver curls. It was nothing like the silver of 12’s elderly. This was metallic, neon, interspersed with blinking green string lights and gold sparkles. He wore silver lipstick and gold bangles. Ridiculous. Clownlike. 

“He’s really outdone himself this year,” R murmured to Eponine.

She smirked.

“Hello, hello! Welcome!” he boomed. “Welcome, dear people, to the reaping! This is going to be a very special year for all of us!” He spread his arms wide. If he expected applause, there was none. He put a hand to his forehead and gasped. “Oh, I’m just so excited. Today, one lucky man and woman -- well, boy and girl -- will be chosen to represent your district. The honor of it! The joy!” 

In front of Claquesous there were two large glass bowls, the sort a rich child might keep a pet fish in. These two were filled with slips of paper, each with the name of a child. The papers were folded carefully. Rich, cream-colored paper -- ridiculous. Some children had put their names in multiple times -- ten, fifteen, twenty, thirty. Each slip meant a year’s worth of grain and oil. In a place like 12, that ration was so small and families were so big...well, it just made sense for kids to help provide. 

“Alright! Without further ado! The first lucky tribute!” Claquesous looked like he was about ready to cream his fancy dress pants. R suppressed a snort. He’d have to tell Eponine that one later. After the horror of the day had worn off.

Claquesous pulled out a slip, and with great relish, read out, “VIOLE GRANTAIRE.”


	2. two

For a moment, the world was syrup-slow. 

Why hadn’t Claquesous read the name yet? And why was he just smiling vacantly at the crowd? No, not vacantly, exactly. Expectantly. But why was he just gazing out over the sea of gray children? Why? Who was the unlucky little bastard?

And then it all came rushing back in.

“Viole? Viole Grantiare? Young lady?”

The twelve-year-olds rippled, then parted. The kids looked nervously at -- at -- at his little sister. His little sister, in her too-big skirt and patched shirt, with her baby doll features. Viole took a small, shuffling step forward. R honed in one something he hadn’t noticed before: she was wearing a pair of Mother’s old heels. 

Eponine gripped his arm and made a choking sound. “No,” she hissed. “Oh, no...Grantaire...”

Viole took faltering steps up to the stage. 

“Come on up, young lady! Don’t be shy! Give your friends a wave!” Claquesous said. He held out a hand -- silver nail polish -- to Viole, who took it hesitantly. 

Grantaire pushed through the sixteen-year-olds, shoving them aside. He leapt over the velvet rope cordoning them away from others. “No!” he screamed a last. 

At that moment, Viole’s composure broke. She dropped Claquesous’s hand as if it were scalding. The girl whipped around and tried to run to him. She made it about three steps before the head peacekeeper hefted her up around the middle. He held the squirming, shrieking little girl and looked almost sad. 

“R!” Viole screamed. “GRANTAIRE!”

“I VOLUNTEER!” Grantaire shouted. “I volunteer as tribute! Put her down!”

It felt like magma was running through his veins. His blood was so hot...no thoughts could form. The head peacekeeper set Viole on the ground and she sprinted to him. “R,” she sobbed, “no! No you can’t!” He held her as tight as he could, but no words would come.

His bony little sister was wrenched away -- he turned, snarling, only to find Eponine hoisting Viole over her shoulder like a sack of potatoes. Her eyes shone with tears. 

Grantaire remembered that he had an audience. He didn’t realize he’d been crouching. He slowly straightened up and took a few steps towards the stage. Claquesous looked shocked. Some of his string lights had been knocked askew and hung down like vines from his silver curls. “Well, my, my,” the man said at last. “Come onstage, young man.”

Grantaire took to the stage. He had no idea what to do. The only thing he could hear was Viole’s tearful shrieks. 

“You’re District 12’s very first volunteer, do you know that?” Claquesous said. 

“No,” Grantaire said flatly. 

“Now I’ll bet my curls that was your little sister. Is that correct?” Claquesous was pouting his lips out. His clown face was so punchable...

“Yes.”

“Oh,” Claquesous groaned. He put a hand on his chest like the emotion of it all physically hurt. “Oh, I can’t catch my breath. Sacrificing yourself for your little sister. It’s enough to make a grown man cry!” The motherfucker wiped a fake tear from his eye. With that, he turned away. “Now that was certainly exciting! But let’s not forget, we still have one tribute to choose!” He fished around in the second glass bowl, which contained the names of more District 12 children. Looking pleased as punch, Claquesous read out, “JULIEN ENJOLRAS.”

Oh, fuck. Why him? Anyone but him. 

Julien Enjolras was the only son of two of the richest citizens of 12. He was breathtakingly, stupidly beautiful -- ice-white hair, penetrating blue eyes, and pale skin. He looked nothing like the gray-eyed kids they went to school with. Grantaire had had this bullshit lust-crush on the boy for years. They never spoke. Generally, Enjolras seemed to regard him with something like pity whenever he spoke up in class. Pretentious fucker. But the rich boy had given it all away -- literally. Every piece of pocket change his parents gave him went into the pockets of the poor. He was frequently found hawking his parents’ valuables on the black market and then leaving mysterious gifts for the people who really needed it. He wasn’t subtle -- generally he was so obvious it was laughable, but the boy was so fucking noble it was tragic.

And there was one time. 

Eleven years old, Viole a sickly seven. Dad had been dead for a month, blown to bits in a mining accident, and Mother was nowhere to be found. She just sat in her patched chair by the window, crying and staring blankly. R hadn’t eaten in days. No one would buy their old clothes. Consigned to starve in a puddle. But then, Enjolras, who had just started his “give to the poor crusade” -- appeared. He was walking with his parents, who had armfuls of groceries. Fresh bread, a wheel of cheese, vegetables, even what looked like steaming meat stew. Quick as lightning, the boy had nicked two loaves of bread from his father and tossed them to Grantaire. The golden boy received a sound cuff in the face from his mother for that. R heard screeching all the way down the block. 

So yes. That one time that Julien Enjolras had done something kind, something life-saving, for a starving eleven-year-old. The two had never spoken besides that incident, really, but R knew he owed the rich twat his life. And Viole’s. After that, Eponine had taken pity on him and shown him how to make snares. Being taller, she’d also had more luck with Father’s stash of bows in the woods. They’d become inseparable after that. 

Enjolras walked to the stage with measured steps and a haughty expression.

What angle are you going for, kid?

Enjolras climbed the steps and gave Grantaire a level gaze. 

“Now you two look like you know each other!” Claquesous crowed. 

Neither boy said a word. 

“Just as well, then! Nicolas Grantaire and Julien Enjolras!” 

They shook hands. They were escorted into the Justice Building. 

That was that.


	3. three

Grantaire was taken to a small, plush room on the second floor of the Justice Building. The windows were barred and every edge and corner was rounded. Likely so you couldn’t kill yourself. He sat at a wooden table and rubbed the sanded-down corner with one finger. Suddenly, Mother and Viole burst in. 

“You have five minutes,” a gruff voice said from behind them, and the door slammed shut. 

Viole flung herself at him, sobbing. He held her tightly and looked at his mother. The woman looked so utterly tired for a moment that he was almost sympathetic. “You have to keep her fed,” he said harshly. “You have to take on more patients, or start accepting cash payment. Eponine will help where she can. Don’t shut down like you did when Father died. You can’t.” 

His mother didn’t say a word, only nodded.

He held Viole at arm’s length. “Don’t cry, flower.”

“R,” she said, raw. So much emotion packed into one little letter. She fisted her hands at her sides and tried to look tough. “R, you can’t just give up now. You’ve got to fight and try to win. You’re fast and you’re amazing with your bow. If -- if you can hunt animals so well, the maybe you can -- hunt -- people --” Her voice broke off in a choke. 

“Shh, it’s alright, flower.” He hugged her as hard as he could.

“Promise me,” Viole mumbled into his shirt, “you’ll try to win.” She looked into his eyes. “Please.”

“I promise. And I don’t break my promises, right?” R tried for a smile. 

Viole just cried harder and hung on tighter. Mother stood silently in the back of the room. Eventually, the voice outside the door announced that their five minutes was up. They had to pry Viole off of him. Then the door shut again. After a couple of minutes, Eponine burst in. She didn’t acknowledge the human timer warning her about minutes and seconds. In fact, she slammed the door shut on the guy.

Her dark skin was blotchy. She looked like she’d been sobbing. “They put me in,” she said, her voice hollow. “I got...I got reaped in 7.”

“What?” 

“The mayor of 7 called ours and -- and I’m in trouble. Big trouble. I guess they thought my family was purposefully keeping their kids out of the games. My dad has enemies everywhere. I -- I think they rigged something. I’m -- I’m gonna go on the train with you but then I have to represent 7. I think they’re gonna hurt my aunt or my little brothers or--” She broke off, tears running down her cheeks.

“Fuck,” Grantaire breathed. A feeling of despair clawed up his throat. “Ep...”

She took his hands in hers. “R, you have to promise me -- you know one of us isn’t gonna come home. Don’t let them tear us apart. Don’t let them make us kill each other.” The tears left iridescent trails down her face. 

“I promise,” he said immediately. They just held each other in silence. 

The door slammed open so hard Grantaire thought it’d shatter. A big man with close-cropped hair entered the room and grabbed Eponine by the arm. He hauled her off of him. 

“Get back to your quarters, tribute,” he growled. The pleasure in his eyes was perverse. He dragged Eponine away hissing and spitting like a cat. 

Time blurred after that. Grantaire dimly recalled being escorted at gunpoint to the train station. He recalled hearing Viole’s sobbing -- but distant, as if it was coming from a TV set at a low volume. The only image from the rest of the afternoon that stood out was one of Eponine’s little cousins -- a ten-year-old -- slipping a little pin into his hand. “Protect her,” the dark-eyed boy had whispered. The kid’s name was Jean-Paul, and he’d always been the serious type. R had known the child since his birth. 

Time only seemed to revert to normalcy once he was one the train heading to the Capitol. He, Enjolras, and Eponine had been sat together in a sort of a living room. The train was beautiful. The softest seats he’d ever seen, a fireplace that didn’t need any wood to run, sleeping cars with seperate beds for everyone, crystal chandeliers, mahogany fixtures. Even so. 

He put his arms around Eponine and held her tightly. They’d never been touchy-feely or romantic before, but if he couldn’t cling to his best friend, then who? Untouchable Enjolras? The thought was almost funny. 

Claquesous came in, trailed by another man, and raised his eyebrows. “My, my! Nicolas! Making friends already, it seems.” He snorted, then appeared worried. “Well...it doesn’t strictly say you can’t interact with other tributes...but she’s from a different district...but I suppose this is all rather unprecedented...” He trailed off, mumbling to himself and checking a clipboard he’d been carrying.

Grantaire looked up at the ridiculous man. “We’re best friends,” he growled. 

Claquesous looked shocked. “You two...know one another?” 

“For years,” Eponine affirmed. “We’ve been best friends since we were ten.” 

This kind of information felt too valuable to just give away, but if it gave them even another second together...

Claquesous ran a hand through his silver curls, dislodging his sparkles and lights. “Oh, dear...now that’s utterly tragic.” To his credit, he actually looked very sad. Tears even appeared to be forming in his eyes.

The man who had followed Claquesous into the traincar snorted. All eyes turned to him. Jean Valjean was a familiar face to anyone in District 12, but not a welcome one. He had won the Games when he was just fifteen, and was District 12’s only living victor to date. He was a miserable man and a drunk to boot Every year he humiliated the District 12 tributes with some stupid antic -- throwing up during their interviews, screaming obscenity at the reaping -- shit like that. He was a stocky man with dark skin and dark eyes. He’d made comments to Ep throughout the years, Grantaire knew, about being her real dad, since so few people in 12 looked like them. Rumor had it Valjean had had a wife and daughter once, but he’d driven them away with his drunken tirades and public embarrassments. They said the woman and her little girl lived in 8 these days.

“Well ain’t this fucking tragic,” he grunted. He made a vague gesture towards R and Eponine. “Little lovers. I’ve known these brats since they were born.”

“I only came to 12 when I was ten,” Eponine grumbled. “And we’re not lovers.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Valjean said breezily. “I don’t give a shit what you are.” He turned to Enjolras. “And you, pretty boy -- you’re rich for a 12 kid, aren’t you?”

The boy hadn’t spoken a word since they’d boarded the train, Grantaire realized. He tugged at the collar of his stiff white button-up. “I guess.”

“You guess.” Valean had a chuckle at that. “You guess. I know more than you think, Julien Enjolras. I know your little philanthropic act. Pathetic.” Enjolras made some noise of protest, but Valjean held up a hand. “Cute. Well-intentioned. But pathetic.” He looked at Grantaire. “And then we’ve got you. Mr. Self-Sacrificing. Mr. ‘I-Volunteer-For-My-Baby-Sister.’ You two make quite the pair.” With that, he turned and left. 

Enjolras was the one who broke the silence at last. His voice was strained. “We’re gonna fucking die.”


End file.
